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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581297">Records of Requiem</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesencream/pseuds/strawberriesencream'>strawberriesencream</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Horror, Romance, Slow Burn, Thriller</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:27:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581297</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesencream/pseuds/strawberriesencream</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>She owns a typewriter, her mother’s worn out thing, and records all that she has seen in her dreams, the phantoms she can visualise in broad daylight.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Haruno Sakura/Uchiha Sasuke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Records of Requiem-SasuSaku</p><p>(Contains graphic content such as violence, profanities, detailed descriptions of blood: mature)</p><p>.</p><p>Summary-She owns a typewriter, her mother's worn out thing, and records all that she has seen in her dreams, the phantoms she can visualise in broad daylight.</p><p>Chapter one: The thin string between life and death</p><p>There wasn't much of a bustle today. School was an easy route to escape, but we both know they still would follow me, their limp, vague forms sagging as they struggle, if their limbs are still intact they would probably still walk to an extent, towards me, staggering behind me like weak, desperate fools. Their silvery faces, carved masks of porcelain, stare at me with such sorrow; it used to scare me. I thought they would bring me harm. But phantoms can only do so much in this dystopian world. Their lives cut short, I think they have nothing better to do than plague me with their prominent presences- strangely, it's what makes me keen about waking up in the morning. To see if my delusions have receded.</p><p>They haven't; it's been nine years.</p><p>To think-</p><p>"Sakura? I'm home, dear."</p><p>The prominent sound of ringed-clicking continued to thrum through the cracking silence had ceased, as I looked towards my slightly opened door to find a yellow light glowing through the hallway, its beams slowly trying to manoeuvre themselves towards my chamber. Quietude reeked, a low tapping noise fabricated from my mind started ticking, and so I peeled her blankets off slowly, placing my typewriter aside, and slowly made my way downstairs, the old, rotting oak planks that held the banister and staircase together, creaking as I created light footfalls.</p><p>"Mama?"</p><p>The elder woman had removed her coat, which hung heavily onto the rack, dripping irresponsibly onto the fibre mat used for scraping the soil off one's shoes. Her hood proved no use, for her hair had been encapsulated in streams of water, her face shining with a wet layer patched onto her skin. She was panting slightly, and somehow the rain made her dark, swollen bags from under her lower lids more visible. It looked more like a black eye than anything, and I had to resist the temptation of caressing the dark circles with the pad of my calloused thumb.</p><p>"I'm home, dear."</p><p>"And early, too," I chimed softly, my lips remaining parted as I looked at mother dreamily, almost as if she were a mere figure of her imagination. But my green orbs never failed to capture the difference between the living and the dead, and so I paid no mind in attempting to rub my eyes, for they weren't itching.</p><p>I didn't know whether to feel glad that she was here, present in the doorway, soaked to the brim, and exhausted. I felt uneasy, for as common as it was to eat with a family member, it was very rare for there to be moments like these where the elder woman would catch me off-guard by returning early.</p><p>I would normally hear the door slowly open past the lonely hours of midnight.</p><p>"Is there any food?"</p><p>Usually, when one cooked in this cozy abode, the house would be filled with scents of warm, savoury meals, but the absence was so omnipresent that I ought to think she was teasing her. Yet still I remained stiff and lightly shook my head, indicating that there was in fact no food ready to be served. A slight huff of mirth was all that needed to be said when we both knew that it would, as always when we ate together at the smallest times, be a takeout night.</p><p>::</p><p>"When do you normally eat, Sakura?" My mother quickly adjusted her chopsticks before tucking into her pad thai, hot and steaming with grey strings that wafted through to her nose. She plucked a small amount, twisting the sauced noodles around the two wooden sticks, before daintily popping it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. I hadn't touched a strand of my food yet, pondering whether to truthfully say or make up a white lie.</p><p>I never really ate in the evenings, for some reason it brought me some discomfort, especially when I knew I was alone- or not alone at all. I always felt the signs of eyes looming over my small figure. Discomfort, indeed. To avoid bringing forth any suspicion, I frantically cleared my throat, picking up my own set of chopsticks, and reached for a curled pink prawn, nibbling on the area after its decapitated head, pondering to myself for a little while.</p><p>"I eat at around ten."</p><p>"You obviously don't each much; the fridge hasn't had to be stocked since Sunday last week." she cleared, pursing her lips as she sent a knowing look to me, her guilty daughter. She took another bite, bigger than the last, and once she had fully swallowed, had she taken the time to properly scold her.</p><p>"You need to eat. Don't be starving yourself-"</p><p>"That's not what it is, mama. I just... forget to eat sometimes," I nonchalantly shrugged, and to mindlessly prove it, I spun quite a handful of noodles before taking it in, whole, ignoring the painful heat that burned inside of my mouth and lingered as I swallowed it down, allowing it to sink past my throat. I really was that forgetful- especially when I kept myself awake writing all night, trying to ignore the faint presences that surrounded me, that slowly, silently, tortured my thoughts.</p><p>We ate heartily, but silence trampled with heavy steps of tension. I ate quickly, and as I went to trash my plastic container I pecked a chaste kiss on my mother's creased forehead, trying to conceal the worries she had, and alleviate the stress for another day of work tomorrow.</p><p>I then returned to a cold room, a chamber that showered in the moon's silvery glow and basked itself in eternal darkness. Not even my lotus duvets made much light as I hugged my bare arms, seeking warmth. My typewriter, laying dormant atop my bed, was left with a blank sheet of paper shuffled in its paper table, and a couple inked pages scattered across the foot of my bed. I made work in shuffling them accordingly, and sat with the old thing on my lap, the metal staining my thigh with chills. I still felt them, they're souls haunting me, eating my mind out, bit by bit, even though I knew it was fruitless to fear phantoms.</p><p>It was useless to fear the dead, because they had no power against me. They were intangible to my hot hands, and vice versa. They were intangible creatures, things that weren't to meddle with the world of living beings, and I knew that. I also knew that they were a figment of creativity. I'd been told that many times the words were encrypted in my mind. It was the final truth.</p><p>Or was it.</p><p>::</p><p>When morning dawned on me, I hadn't even realised I'd succumbed to slumber in the first place. My head relied on my pillow, my pink tresses scattered across the soft thing like spilled paint. I slowly sat up, feeling the weight of my typewriter hugging my stomach as it pressed down, heaving as I breathed, in and out.</p><p>My eyes stung, like I had been weeping, but there was no mourning in my memory, so it must have been from trying to type in the dark. The moon's light wasn't enough to suffice, I supposed. As soon as I slipped out of my warm sheets, I was immediately greeted by winter's embrace; it was something I should have expected, since this would normally be the time where temperatures would simultaneously drop during the day, like a card game with mother nature. Darkness came earlier, too, so the streets were plagued with muggers and horrible people much more profoundly than in the Summer.</p><p>It was also a school day. I hated it.</p><p>It's professional, cute, to have to dress up fashionably in a tight white collar and thick, itchy cotton tights that leave your skin rashing and ferociously red from all the irritation. They'd say it subdues if you applied cream before putting them on, but everyone knew it's a lie. They'd still vex me, and had done for the last three years I've had to be putting up with them. I would've bought myself a good deal of new pairs of stretchy opaque tights, but those still fit well enough and I didn't want to waste money on such trivial things unless I completely had to.</p><p>I'm not a miser, I'm smart with money. There is a difference.</p><p>My blazer was huge and fairly enough, its shoulder pads gave me an extra sense of neatness and broadness. I straightened the measly creases that rippled through the textured fabric with the help of looking through the mirror, and I tied my hair, which was now grasping the blades of my small shoulders. Strange, lotus strands that were extremely pleasing and exotic to the eye.</p><p>I didn't care, didn't tend to the staggering blue bags that swept under my eyelids, for no one really took much time to notice. And I was exhausted- my nights were normally spent drowning in encrypted papers and a shit ton of caffeine. Last night was shocking, a day I had fully let go of the rope I was dying to pull over, and slept. It was the easiest I've had in months, and It'll probably be the last. I wasn't planning on doing such a thing anytime soon.</p><p>::</p><p>Breakfasts were quite the concept for me. I found no need to really prep much for a small meal that only took up fifteen minutes of my entire day, when I could douse myself in hot food during midday, and preferably evening. But breakfast seemed to scatter from hot to cold, cooked to raw. And apparently no ice cream in the mornings.</p><p>I knew from the one less coat hanging on the rack and the one less ratted shoe pair in the cubbies that she'd already left before I came to consciousness. Normally, I would hear her footsteps creep slowly down the stairs, the jiggling of the key unlocking the door, just before it would softly slam a few seconds after. That's when I would 'awake', and start for the shower.</p><p>My mother had never left me notes. Not often, unless she had handed me a couple hundred ryo for groceries, or she needed to tell me something important but not so much as to wake me up in the process. I was impressed that the incessant clicking of my typewriter never shook her awake. But that didn't matter at the moment.</p><p>What did, however, was the fact that there was indeed a note plastered onto the kitchen counter for me.</p><p>She told me to eat more.</p><p>What's the point of stuffing your crying stomach to the brim, until you nearly throw up from all the bloatation when you never had an appetite in the first place?</p><p>::</p><p>Breakfast was nice and quick. One toasted piece of bread lathered in a thick spread of butter and sprinkled with some white sugar. I was positive it was all I had to keep me going, so I didn't bother making any more. But I did need some caffeine to help me sit through the eight hours that were my classes, so there went another ten minutes of my day searching high and low for a damn thermal cup. Coffee, bitterly brown and hot, and a splash of almond milk. No sugar this time, since I had it dispersed onto my solo slice.</p><p>It's cold on the way to school. Donning a thick, navy double breasted coat paid nothing to the chills sent my way. Shivering with numb feet, I rushed to my educational institution as soon as possible, in hopes that there would be heating, and I would be able to feel my toes again.</p><p>Konoha Academy was a renown establishment, at which you could either enroll if one, you had the money to suffice, or you were intelligent to branch yourself for a scholarship. I proudly shoulder myself with the latter, although it's fruitless to boast there:; no one gave a fuck. And honestly, I preferred it that way.</p><p>It definitely impressed me when I first laid my eyes on the school, should I have even given myself credit for calling it that. With its vast, multitude of blocks for buildings, the myriad of acres adorned in greenland and flourishing trees shrouding their leaves, and just the presence of it in general- all of it held more than a candle towards my awed state. It was definitely a privilege to attend there, even if I got lucky scraping gum under the tables with a simple bursary. Those rich, snobby rich kids could suck my pinky toe, I worked my ass off for that place. And in my eyes, I deserved it. I deserved a bit of happiness for once.</p><p>I gave much more for myself than I should've; it wasn't my intention only of being able to be taught here. So to say, I thanked him. But that wasn't important. I was getting ahead of myself.</p><p>The ground crunched my steps as I walked to the Aston block, stretched to the far east of the immense fields of land. Students were permitted to wander as they pleased until the first period began, so I, personally, attempted to make my absolute best out of the situation.</p><p>Ino really batted shit out of me for doing such things, and had tried to tell me that there was nothing interesting about going to a library. But she's the type of girl that would frequently attend parties, dress up with a smokey eyeshadow and dangerous, mindfully toxic lipstick that stained her lips blood red and made the boys fall at her feet. And just like that, she would have all of them tucked around her slim, menacing index finger. It was inevitable, really. She'd been the only person I'd ever known at KA, and I liked that.</p><p>Less bonds made it much easier when having to do an unexpected runaway.</p><p>I digressed, but I arrived at the library. It was silent as usual, except the pupils here reallbasked in the fact that quietude reeked here. There wasn't a wet sock to ruin it, either. As snobby as the people here could be, nothing could beat reading a book for about an hour before first period. Schools started unofficially at eight fifteen, but the school opened at seven. And yet, first period falls under half past eight. So, you could call it a treat that the students could do as they desired for an hour (or more if they preferred).</p><p>There weren't many memorable people at which I'd noticed at the private book place, but there was one person, and everyone knew him. He'd quite the title, anyway, so one would be surprised to not have known him indirectly through hearing whispers through the hallway, or the way your friends and family would hold him in high regard, almost recently, as one would with a king. Uchiha Sasuke-some name. A name that carried such pride throughout the whole of Konohagakure. His family knew to keep this village safe, and I'd gotta say, they'd been doing a pretty decent job as being head of the police force.</p><p>Every case dealt with was one with care, and although I'd never met any of the Uchiha officers in person, their colleagues, for the expanse of the ones I'd met, were pretty nice to me, and stuck well in their business. They were intimidating, yes, but not in the way that would scare you. They were just purely doing their job, and would talk friendly with you. It was nice, but they surrounded almost a lot of places, a patrol kind of thing. It vexed me beyond measure, but I couldn't defy the law. So I would wave at them in respect, and then be on my way.</p><p>I juggled my choices of books, but I decided on fantasy, a type under the 'm' section. Random, I knew. But I wouldn't get everywhere if I had been hella specific with my choices. Just the genre and letter would be enough for me.</p><p>And so, cornered with a book on her nose, sat someone none other than myself, engulfed with the story's orientation, letting the world slip away, bit by bit, and unconsciously slipped myself into a wayward of words.</p><p>But at the back of my mind, I knew I'd never be able to get my person to fully unclasp my grasp on the rope I had been pulling. Not when they were looking at me, with their hollow, piercing eyes, and the weird pungent smell that fills my nostrils when I stare at them for too long. Visible beings, unintentional, really. And yet I had to bear the solo burden of having to put up with the paranormal beings. Seeing a sight no one else would see, and at first it was painful. Unbearable.</p><p>But alas, there came a point where I merely cared. They could do no harm to me, beasts that weren't in the right world, either their throats slit and I could see the damage of the torn necklace of red rings that wore permanently around their throat, or they'd unfortunately carry their heart in their hands, and in it, was a sharp, shining dagger.</p><p>But they couldn't even touch me, the intangible beings. Not even if they tried. And from their constant surrounding me, it seemed as if they were bursting to do so. But they stayed haunting my vision with their clouding figures. And I had no say of rejection, because they're one of the reasons I'm able to be kept up at night.</p><p>::</p><p>My body felt rigid, tired. It was an easy thing to feel: sleeping against the clock. I knew my neck would be cramped. I slumped myself profoundly onto my desk last night, catching a whopping four hours of rest, despite the fact that I rarely wanted to rest. Piles of textbooks and worksheets had gone crumpled under my elbows . There wasn't much to say, it was six in the morning. And yet, I immediately felt empty. Cold slithered up my bare arms like a seething snake, biting at my skin which immediately resorted to arise as gooseflesh, and I sighed. Here's to another day at which I would be bestowed with admirers, a wary mother and a shit ton of rejection from my father. As always, a wonderful way to have started my day.</p><p>My raven locks were unkempt, but I didn't make the effort of combing it out neatly. My mother would scold me, I know, but I could get to that when I went to see her.</p><p>The grey trousers I was supposed to slip in were tight and scratchy, and I quickly fumbled with my belt to sustain my lower half. Most of the students at KA had foregone a vest jumper, but my parents demanded I would don every piece of the damn uniform, so the woolly thing that's v-neck revealed the first two buttons of my shirt felt hot as I slid into my blazer.</p><p>I didn't pay any heed to the sheer amount of rumpled papers, as I merely slammed my door shut and made my way towards the kitchen.</p><p>::</p><p>There she was, alone and content as she prepared the two of us breakfast. From what my eyes could permit me, She was chopping tomatoes, and had already set the table, for there are a pair of chopsticks laying dormant in front of my seat at the table. I was gratified, yet I felt a twinge of anger that it was, even after many years, just us. Father and brother had gone to work without a word.</p><p>I had always asked myself if they worded their goodbyes to mother, or if they just left as if they were never a part of this household. It wasn't something I'd ever ask her, my thoughts just roam relentlessly across the span of my mind. Something I couldn't control. The intervaled chopping, and warm humming of my maternal parent kept me from thinking past the surface line of the water.</p><p>"Good morning, Sasuke!" she beamed, and instantly, I felt the room glow with such warmth, and it was hard to push away the upturn of my lips. I nodded respectfully as she placed down a plate of freshly cut tomatoes. My lips curl as I spotted the undoubted glimmer of white sweetness sprinkled lightly above the seeds.</p><p>"Oh, please, my boy. I didn't put much, it's still edible!" she tucked a loose strand of black behind my ear, before gently pressing her lips to my temple. A gesture I'd known her for, one that shooed away the constant nightmares that plagued me consecutively in the dead of nights.</p><p>Sadly, I could not say the same for the present being.</p><p>My left hand reaches for the wooden sticks, and in one slick motion, A tomato slice was popped in my mouth, and I chewed pensively. I ignored the ever growing crystal sweetness that scraped the tip of my tongue every time, and within minutes, I had scrubbed my plate clean, and with one final regard, I left my mother and started for the Academy.</p><p>There weren't many thoughts on the way, other than the bus I took went slower than usual. Today wasn't exactly a pleasant day- the sky stripped of its blue and stuffed with clouds that instantaneously dulled the atmosphere. An uncaring thing, but it made everything seem gloomier, and therefore everything felt more easier dealt with.</p><p>Perception was a skill of mine, a feature every Uchiha was known to have. I didn't bother the nagging fact that there was a man gazing at my school, hiding sinisterly behind a clump of trees, but I knew I should have. It would have saved us a shit ton of trouble.</p><p>::::::::::</p><p>So! Here's my try at making a first person fic,,damn, I didn't know it would be this hard XD</p><p>I hope you like this! It's gonna be a side project, since my main is CCaCC, and I'll update this when I can, or when I feel like it. Nevertheless, I'd please like a review, or a comment! Tell me what you think, any grammatical mistakes, and in any way, how I can improve. It's midnight where I am, and when I'm writing this note I haven't even edited this chapter yet, so it's definitely raw. But I'd reallyyyy appreciate some sort of feedback, thank you!</p><p>-ateIophobia</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Records of Requiem-SasuSaku<br/>(Contains graphic content such as violence, profanities, detailed descriptions of blood: mature)<br/>.<br/>Summary-She owns a typewriter, her mother's worn out thing, and records all that she has seen in her dreams, the phantoms she can visualise in broad daylight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Chapter two: Defining my limits--it’s not the first time</p><p>It’s about four o’clock in the afternoon when I arrive home, absolutely exhausted. The house is brimming with silence, an uncomfortable one that strangely I am used to, but it comes as a complete habit when I forget to stop myself from softly calling to nothing but soundless dread.</p><p>“I’m home.”</p><p>There’s but a soft ring that echoes my voice, bouncing back, then nothing. Mama definitely isn’t home, but I savour the familiar comfort of my own presence alone. The thick walls aren’t thick enough to stuff the murderous screams of a person, but I hope the extra layer of off-white--maybe even cream-- paint lathered across the textured sides provide more protection against the muffling cries of my typewriter. It’s loud, and easily annoying, but I don’t think to care about documenting on anything else; there is nothing else that I’d rather record my thoughts, even though paper is wasted because of the words I plaster with emotions I cannot figure out, and in the end is slightly crumpled and smudged from the effect of my insomniac self shuffling like a maniac, and the beads of sweat and salty pellets that are my tears staining the drying ink.</p><p>My slim, supple fingers softly graze the surface of the oak dining table, and beneath my tips I feel a sandy feeling building up; dust glazed over the furniture as if it hadn’t been touched in decades. It seemed that way nonetheless, for it wasn’t until yesterday that I had sat myself down at the table and gave myself a portion to eat. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t force myself to not consume, I love food and I will eat anything if I am absolutely ravenous.</p><p> </p><p>It’s just that, once stepping into this abode I deem home, my stomach sizes to a bean and my appetite is wiped away rapidly.</p><p> </p><p>There are many assignments due soon, I recall. There are a myriad of classes that I don’t really pay attention to; but I do collect myself when the end of the class is nearing. A series of ten page essays and solo projects and chapters to scourge fill my blank mind, but I immediately push them to the back of my head. Fuck them, I think. I always do my homework last minute, anyway. There isn’t anyone better to me than a sleazy procrastinator.</p><p>My room is just as cold and withering from daylight when I go inside, even though the sun is streaming beams golden, transpiring into orangey-purple rays as the blazing star slows below the horizon, creating that burning shaking glow amongst the clouds. My bag drops heavily onto the planked floor of birch with a thud that resonated throughout my chamber.</p><p>I plop my small person onto the bed, relishing the feeling of a soft mattress beneath me, as my face is placed hard into the firm material. I take this moment to breathe a little, since alike any other day, today was tiring. Socialising with people (Ino could be the exception-- she’s the type to be a balanced out type of friend) was too much effort that drained every fibre of my being. I remember my previous years in KA, where I would be absolutely proactive and shoot my hands up to answer every question. Thanks to that, my reputation of a great, straight A student precedes me, even to this day.</p><p>Because although I spend the majority of my classes spacing out into worlds unknown, I still study in my own time. Other than recounting, my studies is a high priority that drags me away from the fact that I have all these strange things surrounding me, physically (or should I say spiritually? I never can decide) and mentally. The phantoms in my own mind torture me just as much as the unfortunate souls that had been brutally murdered and watch over me from the day they pass.</p><p>I’ve slackened about it, not grasping much of assistance, not since years ago, but that’s not the point. I like to convince myself that I am fine, living a content life and is completely elated with the place I’m in. If I keep this up I might even get valedictorian, and I’m sure I can try and convince my mother’s workaholic ass to take a few hours off of work just to see me graduate, and maybe say my speech. Then, I can aspire to figure out what my vocation in life is as a career and I can happily study in a high class college, thanks to yet another scholarship. I seem to never be getting enough of those. I know I don’t have enough money to do more than pay for the bare necessities, so my only flaw would probably be working a part time job, preferably a night shift, at like a McDonalds or something. Therefore, whenever I’d get a bit hungry, I’d nip a french fry and quickly eat.</p><p> </p><p>But life for me wasn’t a bed of roses, well, maybe. A bed of roses meant something simple, something easy, but roses have sharp, clawing thorns, and they sting. Maybe my life is that, pretty on the outside, but horribly taunting once you seek past the underneath. But no one would dare to search that deep, because no one looks further than the beautiful petals of blood, just admiring from afar, not knowing my hands stained the petals, the thorns drying with thick coats of wine liquid, wine not being literal but rather describing, because the thorns are painted in blood, my blood. My blood is on their hands, my innocent, supple fingers lining their throats, my once innocent, green irises carrying the burdens of scenes one would never want to see, and myself as a whole: a backstabbing, cowardly bitch with a mother who is a workaholic and spends all her time at the hospital to hide her broken state from her daughter who is just as broken, both of them drowning in different types of paperwork, and traumatising memories that stick like a coffee stain in a carpet--</p><p> </p><p>And what about papa?</p><p> </p><p>...What about him.</p><p> </p><p>::</p><p>Writing and letting my thoughts flow freely lasts about two hours before I decide to stop and actually get some school shit done. Fifteen pages of pent up emotions can only make me delighted as I meticulously placed them into my folder of dated accounts, yet another self made essay made for a blind man to read. How thoughtful.</p><p>Slipping out of the house, the sun has already disappeared below the abyss, and the moon is ,once more, gazing upon me with fondness, another rendezvous I suppose, compared to every other night, I guess it never hurts to just chill out with the cratered thing. But it also looks at me with a hint of disappointment, like it knows the trouble I’m putting myself through. But I ignore it, similar to how I ignore the looks of worry that reach my eyes.</p><p>The night is cool and ever so quiet, I bask myself in it, my strides long and proud as the streets grow shorter and shorter until I reach the end of each street. The zebra crossings are furthermore soiled as my feet dirty their white prints, and the street lamps brim with yellow.</p><p>The city isn’t quiet, however. </p><p>I live in central Konoha, so it’s basically a jam-packed forum wherever you journey, as long as it’s local to here. Like many other days, there are many others who are minding their own business, travelling to their own destinations. There are many skyscrapers that mark the lining of the darkened clouds, grazing them lowly, that are lit up.  I like to think that they have nothing to do with me, nothing to think of me; we’re complete strangers after all.</p><p>But my frenzied thoughts, this damn mind of mine, supposes otherwise: it’s probably the reason why I’m slightly sane. It helps me distinguish the difference between what’s visual, and what’s mental. It keeps me grounded, in a sinister, twisted way, like it’s mocking me. Not that I’ve already had enough shit dealt with the eyesores, but my thoughts have to strangle me as well. And that’s not good.</p><p> </p><p>But I don’t do anything about it.</p><p>There is nothing to do. I don’t want to seek help because I don’t need it. Or rather, I can’t need it. No one would understand the agony I’m going through. The worst that will happen is that I will be shipped away happily to some mental asylum, and I can’t afford to have that. Not when my mother is as torn and battered as I am, and plus, I’m almost out of the hellhole that is school. The satanic threshold that doesn’t have to lure me in because the law enforces and secures it. There would be no way for me to be homeschooled, although I’ve always wondered how far one can go teaching their child until they would have to take regular classes. Guess I’ll never know, she’s never home.</p><p> </p><p>I nearly miss the library, and I immediately turn my foot, racing back to the cemented steps and into the ancient looking building preserved with the help of its keeper tending to it, but I’m sure the outside used to be a pristine white, it had to be. But now it’s a pristine ivory, like the tips of your fingernails. It looks like a small museum, and certainly gives off that vibe, especially with the fact that ‘Konoha Library’ is cautiously carved into the sloping front of the building. It’s slightly toned with sharp lines at the end of each letter, giving it the edge of roman letters. But not quite.</p><p>The inside is the same ivory slapped across the sides, but unevenly. Some of the paint was blotchy, it had been painted without care, I noticed. Many children were permitted to stay here until six, so when I thought of the paint wash peeling off from the walls, I would immediately think of them. Other than that, the books themselves are in pretty good condition. The dark wooden bookshelves are twice my size, and therefore there are ladders with wheels secured to them at the end of every aisle. I don’t bother climbing to such heights, for there is already plenty of a selection from within my reach.</p><p>I only read my school’s books when I’m at the Academy. I don’t think twice to put the book away, because I don’t want to keep it. I’m responsible enough to care and take in the texts, but I choose not to. They’re school books, and they belong there. Besides, throughout my time at KA, I’ve managed to read about three quarters of the whole library, the last being the romance section and the non-fiction books not about medical and political affairs. Those, unfortunately, I don’t pay heed to. </p><p>The local library, however, is a place where there aren’t books banned like there are in highschools. There’s more freedom to read whatever I want. More textbooks about the human body I could study, and more action I could picture.</p><p> </p><p>Today, I was looking for none of those.</p><p> </p><p>::</p><p>“You again.”</p><p>The librarian feigns disgust as she looks at me, the typical high bun, rectangular glasses and blouse, blazer, pencil skirt and stilettos type. She drags her lenses down to her nose as she looks me up and down, her nose flares me. She doesn’t hate me, when she’s in a good mood we have decent conversations, but on normal days or when she’s fucked, she treats me like she treats everyone else. It’s hilarious.</p><p>“Miss Suzuna,” I acknowledge, grinning slightly. She glares, and she’s standing, but she grabs her office chair, the furniture sliding smoothly across the tiled floor before plopping herself down neatly, smoothing out the wrinkles on her lap, and then clears her throat. She proceeds to log in to her computer.</p><p>She’s always last shift, so I can only assume she has a daytime job. She was in her late twenties, and she was pretty, but the angry lines of her forehead and the scowls that cross her face makes her seem ten times older. She’s a refined woman, with a jaw that could cut diamonds, and her lips are currently pursed in a downturn. The sounds of fast typing resonate throughout the whole hall, and then she turns to me expectantly.</p><p>“And what do I owe you the pleasure of reading today, Sakura?” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, and I smirk. I reveal my library card, and she scans. Her glasses flash green from the reflection, and she quickly slides it back across to the top of her desk.</p><p>“The newspapers, please.”</p><p>More typing. It’s quite a process, a little long enough to make small talk. But I don’t make small talk. I continue to stare at nothing, until she drags me out of my thoughts. Her eyes never lift from the computer as she speaks.</p><p>“Now why would a young girl want to look through those newspapers. As far as I’m concerned, you usually read the most eccentric of books. Congratulations, Nakamura. You’ve breached the next wall of weird.”</p><p>Even after five years, hearing my name being addressed as my mother’s maiden is just so untouchable, unfamiliar. But it was a necessary process in order to cover.</p><p>To cover, indeed.</p><p>::</p><p>I look through all the newspapers with ‘Kizashi Haruno’ plastered across the title. His face is scrawny and his beard has prolonged an inch more. Dirty, dusty ashy pink hair is strikingly up, and his eyes show no emotion. I smile, because he’s changed. He’s become more deranged over the years; it was exactly what I had expected. He’s never caught, poor thing. He’s on the loose from what I can infer from the latest papers, and there’s no doubt in my mind he’s searching for mama and I. There’s nothing more sure. It gives me chills thinking of seeing him again. He’s probably sharpening his knives, shooting more people with us in his mind. How amusing. How irritating it must be for him to not have found us by now. I wonder what he would think when he realises we’re in one of the most guarded cities in five nations.</p><p>I wonder.</p><p> </p><p>There are myriads of articles and spectacles about him: truly a spotlight star, I’d say. He made the headlines more than ten times, what a record! I bet mama would be cursing in her scalpels and shrubs if she knew what I was researching, but I don’t care. I wanted to see the update on my father, because I know we won’t be able to be sheltered from his manipulative, stained hands. Never. So I only brace myself for the worst at all times. I’ve seen what he can do; it doesn’t scare me as much, but I’m wary. And when push comes to shove, I’m sure I can find a place where they sell cyanide pills for free.</p><p> </p><p>::</p><p>Sasuke</p><p>There isn’t nearly enough of a barrier to prevent me from going today. The sky is dark and has completely been drained of light, and my mother is worried. But I reassure her; I always do. She’s wary of me, in a loving way, but that’s not what I need right now. My mother remains the soft spot in whatever the dulling pulse of my beating heart is. </p><p>She’s kind, and excruciatingly thoughtful, but I don’t want that right now. I’ve cherished enough times with her, but I know I’m being sheltered. There’s too much that prevents me from knowing, and at the moment, I’m sitting on the sidelines, not even a substitute, not even a spectator. I’m just there.</p><p> </p><p>Just there while my father and brother run the police force.</p><p>There isn’t much of what my envy is, but it’s festering. But I digress.</p><p> </p><p>I’m walking to the local library, well, local being misleading. It’s quite the distance from my house, but it’s the nearest library other than the school. My family lives in a well off neighbourhood, but I guess you’d think there’d be a place to read. You’d be wrong.</p><p>I’m not one to pry, but it was weird seeing such an exotic colour out of the blue. I recognised her the moment I saw her; not many people exhibit such bright locks of lotus. Nakamura Sakura--the annoying girl who’d crossed paths with me quite a few years ago. It was strange, really.  Seeing her in group therapy, twelve years old no less. I can’t exactly speak for myself, being the exact same age. I didn’t expect there to be another youth at the main clinic, and that we’d be paired up with other seniors.</p><p>It didn’t last long. We’d been attending the same school, so it was only natural we’d avoid each other as much as humanly possible. I do that anyway. But I never paid much heed to what she’d bring to the table; mother put me there because she thought I needed it. But I didn’t. What twelve year old would need to go see a therapist? Weren’t we supposed to stay stagnant just before we’d hit our teen years? Guess not. I didn’t have any predominant problems, but her? It was only after I quit that I would seldom wonder.</p><p>I don’t think of it much, but sometimes I ponder why she was there. And why we seemed to cross paths every so often. I got into KA easily, because my family is respected. Honoured, even. Being the second son of the Chief of police there’s quite a reputation I uphold. Although, I’d rather had wanted to get a scholarship. But it’s inevitable, no matter where I turn I’m always bombarded with reverent looks. I bet they’re wondering when I’ll be able to join the force, too. And what place I’ll take.</p><p> </p><p>Tch. When pigs fly.</p><p> </p><p>She’s looking at the newspapers, from what I can see. I can’t get close enough to spectate what exactly she’s looking for, but there’s obviously a common denominator in the papers she’s garnered. She’s being specific, so she’s not choosing the ones from the recent news. It’s suspicious, but I don’t check to see. It’s not my business, and it never will be. </p><p>I place the book back into its shelf and go to see the librarian to check out for the day. But as soon as I turn around, emerald fields my vision.</p><p>::</p><p>...I don’t expect to see him here.</p><p>It’s not much of a coincidence, I caught him in the school’s library during quarter or lunch, so I shouldn’t be surprised. But I kinda am. </p><p>“Hey, Nakamura, you done?”</p><p>I snap out of my hinged thoughts, turning straight to the woman addressing me. I curtly nod, thanking her before heading towards the door. But he’s slowed a good pace behind me. There’s not much to discuss, not anything to talk about at all. But it’s tense, like a cramped muscle, and awkward. Unfortunately, I’m useless when it’s awkward. There’s nothing to fix it, and plus, there’s a grounded level of resentment between us, especially with those past encounters, but I like to shove those memories at the back of my mind.</p><p> </p><p>Like I’d ever throw out the fact that my mother and I were running away from my psychotic ass of a homicidal murderer I deem my father.</p><p> </p><p>I turn right when he paces forward, and it may have been something in my head but his strodes fastened. Like I could care. And then, I arrive home, </p><p> </p><p>Safe and sound.</p><p>::</p><p>Anonymous</p><p>She didn’t think to look behind her when taking care of the library. But she paid the price. A clean slit to the neck and she was a goner.</p><p>:::::</p><p>Hello! I updated lol. DSHASOIDFHUJDAS anyway thank you for reading! Any mistakes will be corrected tomorrow.</p><p>-writer</p>
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